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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



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Chap)u5.ir Copyright No. 



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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



AND OTHER POEMS 



/ 



LLOYD MIFFLIN 



AUTHOR OF " AT THE GATES OF SONG 



The best of this kind are but shadows 
— Shakespeare 



Illustrated 




BOSTON 
ESTES AND LAURIAT 

MDCCCXCVIII 






2nd 




i89p^-^ n n V 






4951 



Copyright, i8g8 
By Lloyd Mifflin 



Colonial ^Press: 

Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co. 
Boston, U. S. A. 



TO THE MEMORY 
OF 

Mn 53ear jMotfjer 

WHO DIED WHILE I WAS 
IN MY EARLY CHILDHOOD 

AND THE SOLACE 

OF WHOSE COMPANIONSHIP 

I NEVER KNEW 



And trust me while I turned the page 
And tracked you still on classic ground^ 
I grew in gladness till I found 

My spirits in the golden age, 

— Tennyson 



CONTENTS 



I. THE SLOPES OF HELICON 

PAGE 

THE SLOPES OF HELICON I 

ARIADNE IN NAXOS I9 

THE DETHRONED . . . . . . .21 

FROM MOSCHUS 24 

POLYPHEMUS TO ULYSSES 25 

WITH WINGED STEPS 26 

CALLIOPE 27 

IL PASTORALS 

IN CLOVER BLOOMS 3 1 

THE HILLS 32 

TO A FARMER — POOR AND OLD • • • • 35 

THE CARDINAL-BIRD 36 

IN THE FIELDS 37 

EPIG^A 39 

IN THE PEACH ORCHARD 40 

BIRDS AND THE POET 4I 



VU 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE LOCUST-TREES 43 

BEFORE DAWN 44 

FAREWELL, YE FIELDS 45 

MANDRAGORA 47 

winter's here INDEED 48 

III. SONNETS 

from the battlements 53 

twilight from the lawn 54 

THE TRIO 55 

november 56 

summer's sounds 57 

THE procession 58 

A CATTLE PICTURE BY CUYP 59 

THE VICTOR 60 

OPENING OF THE URNS 61 

THE STORM-CLOUDS 62 

APRIL THE TWENTY-THIRD 63 

LOOKING AT THE WEST 64 

THE SEASONS . . . . . . . •65 

AND THEY SHALL SEE HIS FACE .... 66 

DAWN IN ARQUA 67 

HOMEWARD BOUND 68 

IV. BENEATH THE RAVEN'S WING 

IN THE CYPRESS SWAMP 7 1 

A WINTER TWILIGHT 72 

YOLANDE 73 

CALIBAN . . '77 



vm 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE BIVOUAC 8o 

THE DEAD QUEEN'S LOVER 8l 

THE LAND OF NEVERMORE Z^, 

-AVENGED 85 

V. ARROWS OF EROS 

OH, NOT ON THE FIELD 89 

THE CAPTIVE 90 

HER ROSES 91 

LOVERS IN THE LANE 92 

SIRENS 93 

THE MOON-SHIP . . . . . . .94 

BETRAYED 95 

IN PALL-MALL 96 

THE LUNCH AL FRESCO 97 

A FRIEND NO MORE 98 

THE LIGHT WITHIN 99 

MY SOURCE OF LIGHT ICO 

TAKE BACK YOUR WORDS lOI 

BY THE FROZEN RIVER I02 

FAR FROM THE DAWN IO3 

FROM DAWN TILL DUSK IO4 

WHERE HAVE THEY GONE I05 

IN DREAR NOVEMBER I06 

GO ON WITH THE PLAY I07 

THE CRESCENT I08 

VI. MINOR CHORDS 

BLIGHT Ill 



IX 



CONTENTS 

PAGB 

ABOVE THE TREES 112 

HOLLYHOCKS II3 

THE KNIGHT, THE MAID, AND THE MINSTREL . I16 

THE SINGER 121 

LONGFELLOW 122 

THE WATCHER 1 23 

TO A BABY 124 

A WINTER DIRGE I25 

ROLAND TO THE NUN 1 26 

BEYOND THE HILLS 1 27 

BENEATH THE PALM 1 28 

THE ROAD 129 

THEY BRING THEIR FLOWERS . . . -130 

MY FATHER AT EIGHTY 1 32 

A poet's BOOKCASE 1 33 

THE ANNIVERSARY I34 

MY LADY FAIR I35 

O WHAT IS SONG 1 37 

THE BRIDE OF THE SEA I38 

THE WING OF DEATH I4I 

O EARTH . 142 

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF KEATS . . . -143 

THE IDEALISTS 1 48 

MARINERS 150 

ACROSS THE YEARS 1 52 

FOOTFALLS ON THE STAIRS 1 53 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR 

From a Photograph, — Feb., 1898 . . . Frontispiece 

THE SLOPES OF HELICON From pen drawing by L. IM. 

Where Cyparissus shot the stag g 

WITH WINGED STEPS From pen drawing by L. M. 

Oh, not by Arethusan fountains fair 26 

THE HILLS From pen drawing by T. MoRAN, N.A. 

But high upon some cloudy crest 34 

FAREWELL, YE FIELDS Drawing by T. Moran, N.A. 

Nor mark the slant sun tip the tasselled com ... 45 

THE SEASONS From pen drawing by T. Moran, N.A. 

And worshipped Autumn on her misty crest .... 65 

THE LAND OF NEVERMORE By T. Moran, N.A. 

And gracious girlhood bloomed and blossomed there . . 83 

BETRAYED From pen drawing by T. Moran, N.A. 

Sink down, O lurid sun 95 

BY THE FROZEN RIVER Drawing by T. Moran, N.A. 

And Winter reigns where Summer failed .... 102 

BEYOND THE HILLS From drawing by T. Moran, N.A. 

Is there no balm of sweet repose 127 

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF KEATS By T. MoRAN, N.A. 

And softer than the sound of waters falling . . . .143 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Among the faint Olympians 

— Hyperion 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



The Slopes of Helicon 

TO MARZIO DI COLONNA 



O Friend, though now 't is many a day 
Since o'er the blue Ionian sea 
Our sails took wing from Italy, 

And in th' ^^gean's rocky bay 

Were furled, yet bear, though late, from me 
One reminiscent lay ; 

II 

From me, who, under snow-clad trees 
Here on the Pennsylvania hills. 
Across the years of joys and ills 

Look back, and seem to hear the breeze 

Once more above Idalian rills 
Beyond the Cyclades — 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



III 

Beyond those sapphire isles asleep, 

Seen in alternate glow and gloom — 
Faint Tenos, bathed in purple bloom ; 

And Delos, wanderer of the deep ; 

With Naxos, Ariadne's tomb ; 
And Melos, blue and steep. 



IV 

Remember, how, beneath the pine, 
Upon Hellenic slopes we lay — 
Where beauty consecrates decay. 
Mantling the ruin with her vine — 
We thought the earth ethereal clay, 
The Olympian air, divine. 



And on idyllic hills of green, 

Recall how long it kept aloof — 
That spot the winged courser's hoof 
First struck, — and how, when later seen, 
We quaffed, to put it to the proof. 
The Attic Hippocrene. 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



VI 

And after we had drunken there, 

We fancied all the landscape teemed 
With shapes of which we long had 
dreamed, — 
Of god and goddess passing fair. 
Whose immemorial forms still gleamed 
Across that finer air. 

VII 

'T was then, below the rustling trees. 
In shadowy copse across the lawn, 
We peered, to mark some Nymph or 
Faun; 
And as a balm for missing these — 
Still there, but from our sight withdrawn - 
We heard the Hybla bees. 

VIII 

We felt the aura Zephyr brings ; 

Then Cupid in the shade espied 
Asleep, his quiver by his side 
Folded beneath his purple wings ; — 
Heard murmurs in the air that vied 
With Heliconian strings : 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



IX 

Not murmurs of the mundane years, 
Nor song of any mortal bird, 
But sounds the old Olympians heard 
And still ecstatic Poet hears — 
A rhythmic paean, void of word, 
A music of the spheres. 



Then from above the slumberous lea 
We gazed upon the ancient sky ; 
Saw him who to the sun would fly. 

Far in the blue's immensity 

Pause, wingless, and with one last sigh 
Drop in th' Icarian sea. 



XI 

We marked a god a maid pursue — 

Back from his brow his yellow hair 
Glowed like a sunset cloud in air — 

And as he clutched her, swift from view. 

The Naiad, like to laurel fair, 
A Hamadryad grew. 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



XII 

Then saw we him who on that isle 

Renounced the blare of war's alarms, 
And, overpowered by her charms — 

The goddess of the heart of guile — 

Lapped in the lilies of her arms 
Forgot the world awhile. 

XIII 

Remember, then, behind us stirred, 

From unseen dells beyond the cove. 
Gay Bacchic chantings, interwove 

With flutings sweeter than a bird ; 

When, out before us from the grove, 
A Satyr, sudden, skirred. 

XIV 

He stopped beside us as he danced, — 
Stopped short, and prick'd a caprine 

ear 
Beyond his budding horns, to hear 
The clang of cymbals that advanced 
Breeze-borne, as from some charmed sphere, 
To us ward, so it chanced. 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



XV 

A roistering rout filed by our side ; 

The flushed Bacchantes, ruddy-fair, 
Wove vine-leaves in their tawny hair ; 

A youth, upon a leopard pied, 

'Mid scent of grapes that lingered there. 
Triumphantly did ride. 



XVI 

Lured to the spot, as they passed by, 
The goat-foot Pan came from the 

meads. 
And seeing Syrinx through tall weeds. 

Gave chase all ineffectually; 

Then, sullen, wrought that pipe of reeds 
Among the tussocks high. 

XVII 

While, in the rocky uplands near. 

From undergrowths of laurel cool, 
We heard a voice which did befool 
The rapt attention of the ear. 
When he of Thespis, in the pool, 
Dropped his pathetic tear. 



6 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



XVIII 

And then, upon a sea of blue, 

We watched the curled foam gather 
white, 

Where, to a goddess exquisite, 
Slowly the willing waters grew ; 
While cupids, winged, o'erhead were bright 

With Love's rubescent hue. 



XIX 

And further, on the Libyan main. 

Chained to a cliff, and like to die, 
We saw a naked beauty lie ; 
When, through the air above the plain. 
He with the Gorgon's head went by. 
And broke her ruthless chain. 



XX 

Then saw we him of Ocean born, 

Whose crime and passion was to know, 
Alone upon Caucasian snow 

Calm and defiant, though forlorn ; 

Godlike — with genius on his brow — 
Filled with immortal scorn ! 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



XXI 

We marked a misty peak in air, 

Where clouds of sulphurous smoke 

upcurled ; 
While the brute giant seaward hurled 

Rock after rock in his despair, 

The Ithacan his sails unfurled. 
And left him, eyeless, there. 



XXII 

Recall that sound as of a lute, 

When from the empyrean deep. 
We saw the eagle downward sweep, 
And, as we gazed in wonder mute. 
Bear up a lad from 'mid his sheep. 
Who dropped a shepherd's flute ; 

XXIII 

And though full slowly, all around. 

We searched the uplands where it fell, 
O'er many a flowery hillock-swell 
That rises on that classic ground, 
Yet, on those slopes of asphodel. 
Nor pipe nor flute we found ! 







Where Cyparissus shot the stag 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



XXIV 

And then that cypress, there, alone, — 
The while our steps began to lag 
In toiling to the rocky crag 
Whereon it made its throne — 
Where Cyparissus shot the stag — 
Began to sigh and moan. 



XXV 

And still within that mythic air, 

Though somewhat lower in the glade. 
And spreading wide her yewen shade. 

Sweet Smilax grew ; while beauteous there 

Stood Crocus, lover of the maid 
Ephemerally fair. 



XXVI 

Near by, with large and languorous eyes, 
A wondrous heifer, white and fawn, 
Grazed 'mid the grasses on the lawn ; 
A Priestess, she, in such disguise, 
Whom Jove, within his cloud withdrawn, 
Transformed, to idolize. 



9 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



XXVII 

We looked where once lolchos bloomed ; 
And, as the day began to wane, 
Through shadow-rays of sun and rain, 

Appeared her temples, all relumed ; 

While o'er the soft Thessalian plain 
Pelion and Ossa gloomed. 



XXVIII 

And there we saw the little stream 

Where Jason's sunken sandal lay ; 
And, snorting, eager for the fray, 
We heard the Centaur stallions scream — 
Saw Chiron all his herd display, 
Until the shores did teem : 



XXIX 

Beheld her, who, beyond the sea, 

With maidens gathering crocus blooms 
In Enna's vale of faint perfumes, 
Walked on demure and dreamily, 
Till Dis stole her to queen his glooms — 
The sweet Persephone. 



lO 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



XXX 

A daughter of the wave unfurled 

Before us then her wings, bedight 
With all prismatic colors bright ; 

Far o'er her head the storm-cloud curled ; 

But when she smiled in her delight 
A rainbow spanned the world ! 



XXXI 

And there, like marble, on the slope. 

The primal woman, — white as snows, 
And sweeter than the wildwood rose 
Above the banks of heliotrope, — 
Who brought to man a thousand woes, 
Yet lures him still with hope. 



XXXII 

And turning then, we heard a groan 

From out the gray-green olive borne, 
Piteous and sweet, and so forlorn 

'Twould cause to melt a heart of stone ; 

Childless, bereft, by sorrow torn. 
She made immortal moan ; 



II 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



XXXIII 

While, like a statue, marble-fair, 

Pallid within the shade she stood, - 
Spouse of Amphion, oh, how could 
Latona cause her such despair ! — 
Still sorrowing for her hapless brood, 
Her wail went down the air. 



XXXIV 

And near her side, some steps apart, 

Drawn by the bond of poignant woe, 
A Nymph bent o'er her lover low ; 
And as she saw the cruel dart 
That dealt to him that fatal blow, 
She stabbed her breaking heart. 



XXXV 

Then as the Rose of Ida fell, — 

The crimson on her milk-white throat, — 
We stood grief-struck, till one clear note, 
Of soulful song the miracle. 
Upon our hearts its pathos smote — 
The voice of Philomel ! 



12 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



XXXVI 

To hear her was so rich a boon, 

We, somewhat taken by surprise, 
In pleased wonder raised our eyes 
To where, from out the copse of June, 
Flowed forth th' entrancing ecstasies 
Of that delicious tune ! 

XXXVII 

It died away. ... We heard a roar, 

And, crashing through snapped under- 
wood, 
^ With jagged tusks of froth and blood, 
Swift past us charged the bristled boar ; 
The youth lay dead. ... A wind-flower 
stood 
Upon the forest floor. 

XXXVIII 

And when had passed the grisly brute, 
And silence settled silverly 
In all the dimples of the lea, 

A Muse did then our ears salute, — 

A daughter of Mnemosyne, 

With her melodious lute ; 



13 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



XXXIX 

We listened long, but all too soon 

That music ceased that seemed divine 
Not tinkling bells on distant kine 
Are near so sweet, the while the moon 
Stoops down beside the sighing brine 
Above the twilight dune ! 



XL 

We saw upon the flowery lea 

A king's fair daughter — beautiful 
More than all lilies which they cull 
On blooming banks of Arcady — 
Come forth to mount the snow-white bull 
Who bore her o'er the sea. 



XLI 

And now as day was nearly done, 

And as we scarcely dared to hope 

That light with darkness long could cope, 

We paused, and marked Hyperion 

Make rosy all the upper slope 
Of dusky Helicon. 



14 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



XLII 

As Daylight faded from the plains, 
Above her own refulgent bier 
We noted that she made appear 

Great funeral pyres in her fanes ; 

And then — and then the Charioteer 
Drove down his crimson lanes ! 



XLIII 

Beyond the dusk horizon far, 

We saw that silver orb arise, — 
Fair as a soul from Paradise, 
And lovelier than all others are 
That gem the amethystine skies, — 
Bright Hesper — evening star ! 

XLIV 

And they that stood as sentinels 
Upon the ramparts of the air, 
Lit all their lamps, and hung them 
there ; 
While in gray turret-clouds were bells. 
That, as the Twilight sought her lair, 
Tolled out their faint farewells. 



IS 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



XLV 

And when the wings of Nox grew wide, 
And she, with all her forehead bowed, 
Rode near us in her sable shroud, 
A sleeping youth we dim descried. 
And saw the Huntress leave her cloud, 
To lie anear his side. 



XLVI 

And then a music seemed to wake 

The listening hills and dimmer dales. 
Pathetic as a god's that wails 
With rapture while his heart doth ache, — 
Her song — th' impassioned nightingale's — 
That floods again the brake ! 



XLVII 

And when was hushed that wondrous tone, 
We heard the sylvan tangle stir. 
And, glimmering in the gloom, saw her 

The purest and the loveliest one, 

The last Olympian harbinger — 
Ethereal and alone. 



i6 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



XLVIII 

Her spirit made an aureole 

About her wings, which, eagle-wise 
Pulsed, as she panted for the skies ; 

Her looks were on some heavenly goal ; 

And from the deeps of star-like eyes, 
Glowed the immortal Soul. 



XLIX 

Then as the Hippocrene divine 

Within us there began to wane, 
Faded each goddess and her fane; 

Tottered the temples and the pine ; 

Vague phantom-figures blurred the plain. 
And fled the hyaline. 



And now, beside the silver seas, 

Our ship, upon the moonlit bay 
Did slow her dusky anchor weigh ; 
The while her sails puffed with the breeze, 
We steered her where we thought they lay 
The dim Hesperides. 



17 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



LI 

Then Brizo, softly on our eyes, 

Laid velvet hands ; and in that dream 
Passed and repassed an endless stream 
Of godlike, pale Divinities, — 
Nor woke we till the Auroran team 
Dazzled the dappled skies. 



L'Envoi 

LII 

Ah, Friend, 't is many a day since then, 
Where, underneath the ilex-trees, 
We saw, or deemed we saw, all these 
Beyond the waking eyes of men — 
O halcyon days by summer seas, 
That cannot come again ! 



Norwood, 

Dec, 1897. 



18 



ARIADNE IN NAXOS 



Ariadne in Naxos 



So Love is gone ! . . . Gone all his passionate sighs, 
His rapturous eyes 
Intense, 
That poured their lava streams 
Through dewy meadows of my soul, 

Till sense — 
As wild grass catches flame — 
Leapt into fire, and reason lost control 
And dropped her sceptre, vanquished, at his name. 



II 

So Love is gone ! . . . Then how shall I e'er sip 
From any lip 
That 's left, 
Less velvet than his own. 
My little share of future bliss ? 

Bereft 
Of his most precious breath, 
Unsweet will even seem that baby kiss 
I count on. Now, life's kindest gift is death. 



19 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



III 

Thou sweet false Theseus — see these empty arms ! 
By thy white charms 
Caressed, 
Immeasurable joy we knew, 
And felt th' immortal glow. 

Close pressed 
Like rose-leaves in the rose 
That fold into each other as they grow ! 
Now, walk I here unsandalled, save with woes. 



IV 

O Nymphs of Naxos, whither did he go ? 
Fauns ! if ye know, 
Tell me 
The way the darling traitor went. 
Satyrs ! find me the sod 

That he 
In passing hath perfumed. 
That I may kneel to kiss the path he trod, 
And die upon the ground . . abandoned . . doomed ! 



20 



THE DETHRONED 



The Dethroned 

They were younger than Day or than Night was, 

And younger than Darkness and Doom ; 
They were born in the prime, after Light was, 

Or ever the world was in bloom. 
They were older than Love or than Hate is, 

They were older, by ages, than Death ; 
Upon Hiddekel, Gihon, Euphrates, 

Ere the nostrils of man knew breath, 

And on Pison, where onyx and gold is, 

They looked, ere the Dove and the Flood, 
Or the city of Enoch, that old is. 

Rose red as the first brother's blood. 
More potential than witches of Endor, 

Oracles, prophets and seers ; 
And the sheen of their eyes was a splendor 

Unhurt by the havoc of years. 



21 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Crowned as queens on gold thrones empyrean, 

With harps and with garments of light, 
Still their hymns, throughout aeon and aeon, 

Came down on the pinions of night, — 
Yea, as sweet as to shepherds Chaldean 

When watching in silence their sheep. 
From on high fell the peace-giving paean; 

Or soft as the soothings of sleep ; 



Or as harps from shut Paradise portals 

To Dives in sulphurous seas — 
Oh, the voice of the shining immortals 

Was sweeter, far sweeter than these ! 
For the host of them sang — sang together 

At dawn, in the morning of years ; 
Drunk with bliss, reeled the world in its tether, 

And thrilled to their centres the spheres. 



22 



THE DETHRONED 



But empty their thrones in the zenith, 

But shattered their sceptres of old — 
Now men hear not their voice, and it seemeth 

Men's gods are their ingots of gold — 
They were daughters of Darkness and Chaos, 

Were stronger than Famine and Wars ; 
They had power to save or to slay us ; 

Their names were the names of the stars. 



23 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



From Moschus 

PARAPHRASE 

When all unruffled sleeps the silent sea, 
Outward I look, and love the land no more ; 
Fain would my feet forever leave the shore 
To drift upon that calm serenity. 

But when wild ocean thunders angrily, 

And torn waves break into white foam, and roar, 
Then I, ill pleased, seeking the forest floor. 
Love the wind's harping through each swaying 
tree. 

Ah, he whose life is passed upon the wave. 

Whose wandering bark is but a house of death, 
Toils through wild dangers to a watery grave : 

Me, rather, let the forest lull to dreams, 

Low lying on some bank, the boughs beneath. 
In calm repose beside the woodland streams. 



24 



POLYPHEMUS TO ULYSSES 



Polyphemus to Ulysses 



TO E. R. T. 



Revenge ! Revenge ! Ye have shut out the light — 
Burned out my single eye the while I slept; 
But for each tear of blood that I have wept, 
Ye shall give forth a groan. ... I will incite 

The avenging Sea against you, and will smite 

You utterly. . . . Ai ! Ai ! Not Jove shall intercept 
My gathering wrath, ye treacherous wolves, that 

crept 
In secret to my cave, and made day — night ! 

Now by my sire Neptune's oozy locks 

And forked trident ; by the boisterous shell — 
The demi-dolphin Triton's roaring horn — 

I swear 't were better ye had ne'er been born ; 

For I will whelm you with down-thundering rocks 
Deeper than Trojan plummet ever fell ! 



25 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



With Winged Steps 

Oh, not by Arethusan fountains fair, 
Nor silver rivers running softly fleet ; 
Ah, not on mountains trod by fabled feet, 
Though flushed the snowy tops in sunset air ; 

I journey not by them — not there — not there ! 
On classic ground for me — though that were 

sweet — 
No need to roam in body, — me who greet 
The deathless white immortals, every-where : 

Lovely the vales about me, and the dells, 
And yet I pace not them, as on I tread, — 
For Fancy ever is a conjurer ; 

Each footstep falls in azure paths overhead. 
And I, entranced, listening to faint-heard bells, 
Wander afar in fields that never were. 



26 







?^:^? 
? 



6>-^, WfS'i' 4y Arethtisa7i fou7itains fair 



CALLIOPE 



Calliope 

What shall atone for studious days 
Spent at the Muse's cruel side? 
What recompense wilt thou provide 

For labor sore in making lays — 

One of thy wreathed bays, 
Calliope ? 

Think of the long nights spent with thee, 
When other men were glad with wine, 
With woman's love they deemed divine, 

While I was lone as islands be 

Within a sailless sea. 
Calliope ! 

Would any wreath thou couldst bestow — 
Albeit all wreaths of thine are vain — 
Repay for half this life-long pain? 

Thy laurels for some happier brow; 

I heed not laurels now. 
Calliope ! 



27 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Still wear to me thine ancient frown ; 
Be heartless, as thou wast of old, 
And yield me neither rest nor gold ; 
I scorn thy proffer of renown. 
For Death, too, brings a crown, 
Calliope ! 



28 



PASTORALS 



A ' babbled of green fields 

— Shakespeare 



IN CLOVER BLOOMS 



In Clover Blooms 



Rough is the road 

That Fame would goad 
Us ever rudely over ; — 

How free from care 

Yon maiden fair 
A-wading through the clover ! 

II 

O restless man, 

Thy little span 
Why fume and fret it over ? 

Come here and stroll, 

And ease thy soul 
While walking through the clover. 

Ill 

That golden street 

Where hallowed feet 
Tread, ever softly, over, 

Is far away ; 

But here, to-day. 
Enough for me, the clover ! 



31 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



The Hills 

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills 

TO THE MEMORY OF 
THE REV. CHARLES WEST THOMSON 



Though all the fields about my feet 
Are beauteous with the frozen sleet, 

And snow the valley fills ; 
Not here my spirit stoops and clings, 
But there she soars and spreads her wings 

Above the hills — 

Above the hills ! 



II 

As in her splendor and her sheen 

The Spring comes back with all her green, 

To wade through daffodils ; 
Turning away, afar I gaze 
Across the faint cerulean haze, 

Upon the hills — 

Upon the hills ! 



32 



THE HILLS 



III 



Though in the laurel underbrush 
I hear the warble of the thrush 

And all its tender trills ; 
Yet oh, the spiritual bells 
Within those amethystine dells 

Among the hills — 

Among the hills ! 

IV 

The Summer spreads upon the plain 
A thousand sheaves of golden grain 

Anear her waiting mills ; 
I turn unto yon barren crags, 
They call — they wave their purple flags 

The phantom hills — 

The phantom hills ! 



When sumptuous Autumn strews the sod 
With scarlet vine and golden-rod. 

And every murmur stills ; 
E'en then I gaze till vision dims, 
Upon those amaranthine rims — 

The dreamy hills — 

The dreamy hills ! 



ZZ 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 
VI 

And when November, dull and sere, 
Her lurid sunset spreads, and drear. 

And all the landscape chills ; 
I turn from this and gladly part ; 
They lay their hands upon my heart - 

The evening hills — 

The evening hills ! 

VII 

And even after I am old, 

In summer, or in winter's cold — 

Come health, or age's ills ; 
Still let me raise my weary eyes 
And rest them on my Paradise — 

The fading hills — 

The fading hills ! 

VIII 

And when they make a grave for me. 
Not in the valley may it be 

Beside the meadow rills ; 
But high upon some cloudy crest, 
Closer to heaven I would rest. 

Upon the hills — 

Upon the hills ! 



34 



■^v# <"^r -'5^# ^y ' " 




• iff <k -^' 



\ 






^ 



Bui high upon some cloudy crest 



TO A FARMER-^ POOR AND OLD 



To a Farmer — Poor and Old 

His form is bended with old age and toil, 

A life-long labor spent upon the sod 
That yields him scarcely half enough to eat. 

Bear up, brave heart ! there is celestial soil, 
And by still waters will He lead your feet, — 
There must be justice in the halls of God ! 



35 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



The Cardinal-Bird 

TO MARY ANDERSON — MADAME DE NAVARRO 

The Cardinal has come again ; 
He all the brake salutes ; 
'^ His music floods the silent glen, — 
Oh, hear him, how he flutes ! 

From tree to tree his scarlet glows ; 

Such beauty rare he brings, 
That all the richness of the rose 

Seems lavished on his wings ! 



36 



IN THE FIELDS 





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J/ 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



36 



IN THE FIELDS 



In the Fields 

JUNE TWENTY-FIRST 

When daily greener grows the oats ; 
When near his nest the red-wing floats, 

And sweetbrier blossoms in the lane ; 
When freshening wind the wheat-field 

shakes, 
And in its billowy rolling makes 

An ocean of the grain : 

When rye begins to bend its head, 
Fearing the coming reaper dread 

That ruthless o'er it soon shall pass; 
When meadow-larks, that on their breast 
Carry the dandelion's crest. 

Pipe, in the waving grass : 

When from the dimples of the mere 
Come distant voices, faintly clear. 

Across the dells of lazuli ; 
When airs that stir the poplar spray 
Bring odors from the heaps of hay 

That on the uplands dry : 



Zl 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



When wading cows, in cool mid-stream, 
Stand by the hour in some dull dream 

Of meadows deep with clover-blooms ; 
When all the knolls are gold of hue, 
When all the silences of blue 

Are heavy with perfumes : 

When, as the shades of evening fall. 
We catch the faint reechoing call 

From moving hayloads on the hill; 
When gnats in swarms a-dancing go 
Within the golden afterglow 

Where whirls the whippoorwill : 

When all the elder-blossoms white. 
That skirt the runnel, burst in sight. 

Ah, then we know the time o' year, — 
And then, entranced, we raise our eyes 
In gladness to the glowing skies, — 

At last the Summer 's here ! 



38 



EPIG^A 



Epigaea 



INSCRIBED TO 
THE MEMORY OF BAYARD TAYLOR 

April is coming, and I surely hear, 

On all the mossy slopes and woodland dells, 

That elfin music, delicately clear, 
From coral clusters of Arbutus bells. 



Sweet, native flower, that lov'st the lowly ground. 
Close to my secret soul in truth thou art ; 

The earth-star thou — and yet I have not found 
In all the heavens one dearer to my heart. 

Precious thou wast in days that young love gave, 
When sight of thee could make my bosom thrill ; 

Oh, might some friend but plant thee on my grave. 
To tell the woods, thy lover loves thee still ! 



39 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



In the Peach Orchard 

The workman in the orchard rows 
Picked crimsoned fruit as high as he could reach ; 
The farmer said, " My favorites are those, — 
They're very hard to beat, — 

The ' Mountain Rose.' "... 

The little daughter of the workman passed; 
We saw the dew upon her nut-brown feet; 
He said, while smiling on us each 
With pride a father only knows, 
" That is my favorite peach — 

My Mountain Rose ! " 



40 



BIRDS AND THE POET 



Birds and the Poet 

The robin that runs through the orchard old, 

Robbing the grass of its tangles of gray ; 
The lark, with her breast of daffodil gold, 

That drops, like a star, on the meadows of May; 
The bluebird that floats from the top of the tree, 

With the flash of the sky on his beautiful wings ; 
The sparrow that drowns the drone of the bee, 

Where the maple-buds burst, as he madly sings ; 

The turtle that coos from the bellefleur bare. 

Seeking a nook where the branches will bloom ; 
And the wren that wakens the somnolent air 

As he mounts with a twig to his resonant room ; 
These sang to the poet — sang early and late : 

" Wake, indolent wooer, the Spring is for love ! 
Each songster is making a nest for her mate. 

But where is, O Singer, thy nest, or thy dove ? " 



41 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Then the poet looked up through the halls of the air, 

To follow the wave of a mystic hand ; 
And Love went by at his feet in despair, 

While he worshipped that Vision, so white and 
grand. 
The dove cooed content as the days rolled around ; 

The breeze through the blossoms swept soft as a 
sigh ; 
The lark thrilled with joy near her nest on the ground, 

But the soul of the poet still sobbed for the sky. 



42 



THE LOCUST-TREES 



The Locust-Trees 

A SUMMER SONG 

Ah, why will men a-wandering go 

Across the silver seas, 
To seek th' Illyrian ilex, 

Or th' pine of Pyrenees ; 
When here, beneath the shadows, 

They may rest and take their ease, 
While the air is filled with perfume 

Of the lovely Locust-trees ? 

Oh, tell me not of golden boughs 

In far Hesperides, — 
There 's nothing in the world so sweet 

As drowsing here by these, — 
As dreaming 'neath the branches 

When the blooms are full of bees, 
In the languorous lotus-odor 

Of the lovely Locust-trees ! 



43 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Before Dawn 

Why dost thou sing so madly now, O Bird, 

Now, ere the sunrise brings the light ? . . . 
Ah, these are shreds of music thou hast heard 
In dreams throughout the night ! 



44 




Nor 7nark tJie slant sun tip the tasselled corn 



FAREWELL, YE FIELDS 



Farewell, Ye Fields 

TO THE MEMORY OF H. W. G. 

Alas ! to drink no more the crystal spring 
Where oft I drank beneath the meadow rock 

Nor see the blackbird, with his scarlet wing, 
Poise to entice me, on the bending dock; 

Nor see the elder, blossoming still in June, 
Whiten the brook-side with its drift of snow ; 

Nor scan the hill-top till the crescent moon 
Hangs her gold sickle on the orchard bough ; 

Nor mark the slant sun tip the tasselled corn 

When dawn's flushed cheek grows paler in the sky ; 
Nor watch the wind — a breath of summer morn — 

Roll the green billows o'er the seas of rye ; 

•♦•. 

Nor wade through odorous swaths the mowers throw, 
Nor hear the music as they whet the scythe ; 

Nor sight the cradlers, coming all arow. 

The ripe grain sweeping with their swayings lithe ; 



45 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Ah, not again beneath the wildwood boughs, 
To pluck the mountain laurel's roseate stars ; 

Nor o'er the clover call the lowing cows. 
And watch their coming at the upland bars ; 

Nor see the oxen, loosened from their load. 

Tread through the twilight o'er the dark'ning wold ; 

Nor, in the evening, down the dusty road. 
Know the flock coming by the cloud of gold ; 

Oh ! ne'er again to rest beside the sheaves. 
To hail the binders, when their toil is done ; 

Nor on the grain load, brushed by apple leaves, 
Ride down the long lane at the set of sun : 

These peaceful vales no more shall know my feet ; 

Some later poet here shall tune his lay ; 
And still the winds will wave the fields of wheat, 

And still will float the odor from the hay ! 



46 



MANDRAGORA 



Mandragora 

There 's golden haze in the mellow air, 
There 's purple and crimson everywhere, 

East and west ; 
Gathers the Autumn into her fold, 
The wandering leaves of her flocks of gold, - 
So rock me, Earth, oh, rock me to rest ! 

Struggles the vine through half o' the year. 
To ripen each purple, bloomy sphere. 

East and west ; 
But it ceases now, for its toil is done. 
And it waits the warmth of the vernal sun, — 
So rock me, Earth, oh, rock me to rest ! 

The idle birds in the dreamy haze, 

Dream and dream through the amber days. 

East and west ; 
Must Man, the monarch, forever toil, 
Nor learn of the vine, the bird, and the soil ? 
Then rock me, Earth, oh, rock me to rest ! 



47 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Winter's Here Indeed 

The summer's skiffs that lined the shore 
Are laid upon the snowy banks 

With many a useless oar. 
Where silver minnows played their pranks 
By arrow-headed weeds in ranks 
Along the marge, they play no more, — 

For Winter 's here indeed ! 

The shifting shadow from the bough 
No longer delicately weaves 

Upon the wading cow 
The dappled semblance of the leaves ; 
The ferry-flat, uppiled with sheaves 
From island harvests, comes not now, — 

For Winter 's here indeed ! 

And, oh, the plumy islands dim. 
So purple and so azure fair. 

That almost seemed to swim 
Within the amethystine air — 
Like spirits free from every care — 
From river's tranquil rim to rim, 

Ere Winter came indeed ! 



48 



WINTER 'S HERE INDEED 



And have they, then, their mooring lost ? 
Slipped anchor here, and sailed away 

To some more sunny coast? 
To some far-off Floridian bay, 
Where balmy airs around them play? 
Or buried are they by the frost, 

Since Winter 's here indeed ? 



The wild ducks floating by in flocks ; 
The flying geese with phantom scream; 

The heron on the rocks ; 
The halcyon, darting down the stream, — 
All, all, are vanished as a dream, — 
For ice the darling river blocks. 

Since Winter 's here indeed. 

O April with thy violet eyes. 

Come walking down the willowy shores. 

And take us by surprise ! 
And burst to leaf the sycamores, 
And calm the river where it roars, 
And herd thy white flocks in the skies, — 

For Winter 's here indeed ! 



49 



SONNETS 



JVithin the sonnefs narrow plot of ground 

, — Wordsworth 



FROM THE BATTLEMENTS 



From the Battlements 

A THOUSAND years, I think, I have been dead, 
And yet I have not seen her. Can it be 
I am to miss her through eternity, — 
I who on earth thrilled at her lightest tread ? 

Among the millions here that ever thread 
These streets of gold, I surely soon shall see 
That soul that died in her virginity, — 
Shall find at last my love long vanished. 

I feel that I shall know her through disguise 
Of spiritual splendors. I will stand 
Upon the bulwarks, and will watch and wait. 

It must be, that within this pearly gate 
Long hath she entered from the dreamless 

land. . . . 
Ah ! I shall know her by her love-lit eyes. 



SZ 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Twilight from the Lawn 

TO SAMUEL WADDINGTON, ESQ. 

Low in the west the golden crescent's rim 

Sinks slowly in the orange afterglow ; 

Pale puffs of steam rise into rings, and go 

Circling in air. Upon the river's brim 
A gleam of silver lingers. On the limb 

Hoots the lone owl ; and, high above, the crow 

Wings to the wood, most wearily and slow ; 

The hills are purpling, — dimmer and more dim ; 
Against the glory of the going light 

Stand the cathedral spires of the pines; 

The swallows, swirling in concentric lines, 
Swoop down the ivied chimney for the night ; 

While through the pane — a star that doth not 
roam — 

Twinkles the lamp — the Hesperus of home. 



54 



THE TRIO 



The Trio 

With wings upraised, and trumpet pointed high, 
She poised upon the summit of a cloud ; 
" My name is Glory," blew her trump aloud, 
" Who follow in my steps shall never die ! " 

Then, at that blare, one rose and fixed his eye 
Upon her, drawing from his skull the shroud, 
And spake with voice, that, tho' it whispered, 

cowed, — 
" Nay, all are mine, forever ! — Death, am I ! " 

Thereat a baleful Power filled the air, — 
Shook all the shores of their dominion. 
And cried from out the blackness to them there : 

" I am the Vortex named Oblivion, — 
Aged I was, ere Chaos had begun; 
Glory and Death ! behold me, . . . and despair ! " 



55 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



November 

For Autumn's splendors now I search in vain ; 
The crimson thyrsus of the sumac bud, 
And the haw's berries, dashed with Summer's blood, 
Are dripping in the dull November rain. 

No tasselled wigwams of the corn remain. 
All yellow are the streams with swollen flood ; 
And on the hill-side road, the golden mud 
Falls from the felloes of the laboring wain. 

Above the town, upon its wooded perch. 

With unmarked mounds, the little graveyard lies — 
Watched over by the dove-like Quaker church — 

Where sombre pines are pointing to the skies ; 
The only mourner now — the pendent birch — 
Drops tears, to-day, above long-buried eyes. 



S6 



SUMMER'S SOUNDS 



Summer's Sounds 



TO H. M., M. D. 



One listening, in the clover fields can hear 
The mower whet his scythe ; and far away, 
O'er lowlands odorous with the new-mown hay, 
The rattle of the reaper sharp and clear. 

Across the reedy stretches of the mere 

The grazing horses send their greeting neigh ; 
While, 'mid the silences throughout the day, 
The locust's sharp staccato stabs the ear. 

Dim shimmering in the heat the violet hills 
Call to us vaguely from a realm of dreams ; 
And from the meadow's smooth meandering 
streams. 

Come muffled murmurs of the distant mills ; 
From upland wheat-fields, as his barns he fills, 
We hear the farmer, calling to his teams. 



57 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



The Procession 

From caverns of the countless ages vast, 
Along the twilight of the monstrous sky, 
Huge, gloomy figures, dark with majesty, 
Hooded, mysterious, stalked from out the past. 

Slowly they filed, and as I looked, aghast, 
Their distant voices seemed one hollow sigh 
Filled with Remembrance and with Prophecy. 
They peered upon me as a thing outcast. 

Frowning reproof athwart th' upbraiding skies ; 
No word they spake, but in each cloudy scowl 
The cold aversion of averted eyes 

Burned me as fire, and did my soul arraign ; 
While from the smouldering orbs beneath each 

cowl, 
I felt the deathless daggers of disdain. 



S8 



A CATTLE PICTURE BY CUYP 



A Cattle Picture by Cuyp 

WITH MAN PIPING 

List ! . . . 't is the cowherd's mellow tones that fill 
The glowing spaces of the golden air, 
While the rich group of kine, with sun-smit hair, 
Dream their dull dream of wadings by the mill. 

Tread softly through the grasses, and be still . . . 
Speak not above a whisper — have a care. 
Lest he should cease his flutings ! . . . Notice where 
The shepherds, listening, pause upon the hill ; 

The very children gaze, and stop their play. 

Bound to the place by music's magic bands. . . . 
O piper of the picture, keep thy hands 

Forever on thy flute, as here to-day ; 

The world is full of noise, — pipe on, we pray ! 
Thy note the spirit hears, and understands. 



59 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



The Victor 

Down in the cloudy towers of my sleep 

A dungeon loomed, wherein I heard the tones 
Of those long ages prisoned, — groans on groans ; 
And, peering further in the noisome deep. 

Wherein no rays of daylight ever creep, 
I saw a skeleton of whitened bones — 
A mighty king and conqueror of thrones — 
Chained to the walls within this donjon-keep : 

His crown still blazed upon him, golden-dull. 

Whence, through the dark, glared jewels, tiger- 
eyed. 
In awe I stood, and, trembling, held my breath; 

And then a Voice — not his who there had died — 
Hissed from the horror of that hollow skull, — 
" I am the King of kings, undying Death ! " 



60 



OPENING OF THE URNS 



Opening of the Urns 

Along the reaches of the sunset sea, 
A troop of winged Spirits, mystic, fair, 
Dim as the clouds, and dreamy as the air. 
Fluttered from out the twilight down to me : 

" The golden vases which we brought to thee. 
Time after time — before thy brow with care 
Was seamed, and, too, since thou hast known de- 
spair — 
Hast thou worked out, with them, thy destiny ? 

In the past days that long have vanished. 

What hast thou filled them with ? " they softly said. 
And I replied — not without shame and fears — 

" Ah, Fate has filled them for me, thro' the years ; 
Lo ! Open them, and see ! " — and bowed my 

head. . . . 
" Alas ! " they sighed, " these urns are full of 
tears ! " 



6i 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



The Storm-Clouds 

TO THE 

MEMORY OF SAMUEL S. HALDEMAN, LL. D. 

Late Professor of Comparative Philology, 

University of Penna. 

I STAND beside the River as the night 
Unrolls her sombre curtain o'er the day ; 
The pyres within the west have paled away 
And only left their embers, dimly bright, 

To 'lume the purple hill-top's sullen height; 

Then, from behind the crags, the clouds of 

gray — 
A troop of lions held too long at bay — 
Arise from out their antres in their might, 

And low along the mountain ridges prowl, 
Tossing their shaggy manes with lordly roar ; 
While, by the lash of lightnings still uncowed. 

They, raging and rebellious, long and loud, 
Send many an angry and deep-throated growl 
Rumbling along the caverns of the shore ! 



62 



APRIL THE TWENTY-THIRD 



April the Twenty-third 

(1 564-1616) 

I AM not proud because I make to bloom 

Each year the hawthorn by the cottage gate ; 

Nor that I raise the rose's heart elate 

With thoughts of climbing to my lady's room ; 

But that, one golden morn, I did illume 
The world with him, — a light to dominate 
And daze all time. It was my envied fate 
To lay him in his cradle and his tomb. 

When Nature gave him she became lovelorn, 
Nor would she let him longer here abide ; 
And if in memory of the time, men mourn. 

Grieving, — '* This is the day that Shakespeare 
died," 
I, April, answer from the Avon's side, 
" This is the day my dearest child was born .^" 



63 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Looking at the West 

Ye Evening Clouds, on which I sadly gaze, 
Mine eyelids wet with untumultuous tears, 
Because your beauty's poignant pathos sears 
Itself into the soul, the while the ways 

Are rich with ruby and with chrysoprase — 
Ye clouds of evening, in those promised years. 
In the great oriel of some grander spheres. 
Shall not your splendor glad our heavenly days ? 

God's smile it is that floods the sunset sky — 
He cheers us with this parting, lest we might 
Be frighted by the Dark's immensity. 

How could we bear the absence of the light, 
Unless, each eve, down-bending from on high, 
He from those Doors of Heaven beamed, " Good 
night ? " 



64 








A7id zvor shipped Aiittnnn on her viisty crest 



THE SEASONS 



The Seasons 

In youth, I thought that April, azure-dressed, 

Was queen of all the year, her blue eyes beaming 
With earliest love — with passionate glances gleam- 
ing; 
Later, I found in all my errant quest 

Nothing so sweet as June ; next loved I best 

The rich late Summer, with her harvests teeming. 
Throned on her slopes of gold ; then fell I dream- 
ing, 
And worshipped Autumn on her misty crest; 

But now the sweetest days seem dull December's, 
For in the darkness of my twilight room, 
I peer into the hearth-fire and the embers, 

And see fair visions rising through the gloom, — 
Ah, dearer than all else the heart remembers ! — 
Faces of those beloved when in their bloom. 



6s 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



And They Shall See His Face 

'Tis said that after life, within the sky, 

If we through mercy then are granted grace, 
We there may see the Godhead face to face ; 
And this is promised as felicity. . . . 

Ye flaming Seraphs round the throne on high, 
Bend down your ever-burning wings apace 
And shade me from that look ! Fill all the space. 
Angels, between me and the Deity ! 

How could I the full blaze of splendor bear 
Unless excess of glory made invisible 
The Godhead? No, — ah, no! Hide me in 
shade ! . . . 

Not thine, O God, but faces loved full well 
On earth, let thein look on me ever there, 
Gentle and kind, — and let them never fade. 



66 



DAWN IN ARQUA 



Dawn in Arqua 

INSCRIBED TO HIS MEMORY 

(Obiit July i8, 1374) 

Sick of mere Fame, and of Rome's Laureate leaf 
His Latin Epic brought him, up he went 
To steep Arqueto, where he found content 
Among th' Euganean Hills — alas, too brief! 

His was an irremediable grief. 

That heart so loved, that head so opulent 

Of gold, were long since dust. . . . Silent he bent 

Above those Sonnets in that Golden Sheaf : 

Far into midnight, lone he sat, and read 

The Rime once again. . . . Oh, bitterest tears 
By age, for love all unrequited, shed ! . . . 

Then, on that volume slowly sank his head ; 

And in the mountain cottage — bowed with years — 
At early morn they found him, cold and dead. 



^1 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Homeward Bound 

As some stray carrier-pigeon onward hies 
O'er alien spire, and dim cathedral dome, 
With weakening pinions, that reluctant roam 
Athwart the high, inhospitable skies ; 

Famished and faint, with eager, yearning eyes. 
Whirled by the winds above the wild sea's foam, 
Till, at the last, outworn, he gains his home. 
Falls at his mistress's feet, content, and dies : 

So unto thee, sweet Mother of all Song, 

Weak and full weary with world-wanderings, 
We wing the trackless deserts of our sky — 

Truant to thee, O Poesy, too long — 

We reach thy feet at last with bleeding wings. 
And fain would nestle near thy heart to die ! 



ez 



BENEATH 
THE RAFEN'S WING 



They are black vesper''s pageants 

— Shakespeare 



IN THE CYPRESS SWAMP 



In the Cypress Swamp 



On his pools that are black 

Is the green 
That breeds the ague ache ; 
As a crown, on his head 

Unclean — 
As a crown, on his skull 

Obscene, 
Is coiled the copper snake. 



II 

In the darks of the depths 

Of his damps, 
From immemorial time. 
In the flare of his dim 

Marsh lamps. 
Sits the King of the Realm 

Of Swamps — 
Dead, on his Throne of Slime ! 



71 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



A Winter Twilight 

A BLEAK, keen twilight, cold and still ; 

White fields of gloom below ; 
The clover path around the hill 

Hearsed in its pall of snow ; 
To brier tangles, scant and bare. 

The shivering snow-birds go ; 
A crescent's thin face, full of care, 

Aches in her silver bow ; 
The lingering light, in gray despair, 

Sinks melancholy low ; 
Afar, two homeless foot-tracks wind 

Into a night of woe, 
Where, like a vague dread in the mind. 

Drifts the belated crow. 



72 



YOLANDE 



Yolande 



TO SIG. ILARIO SILVIO 



The blithe knights name me " Mad Sir Rue," 
For, of the Table Round, 

These eyes of woe 

That dazed the foe, 
Bend lowest on the ground. 

II 

u:is eagle spirit mounts no more — 
This armor is a-rust — 

Not as of yore 

This soul shall soar — 
Her wings are in the dust. 

Ill 

And am I crazed, since she, my bride, 
My Yolande, left me here? 

In beauty's pride 

She paled and died, 
And glorified a bier ! 



73 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



IV 

I hear the sobs that rise for aye 
Above her jewelled pall. 
By night — by day — 
I hear the clay 
Wail on her coffin wall. 



This fiend that gnaws me — fiend thou art, 
More fell than ghoul or gnome — 

He tears a part 

From out my heart 
And lays it in her tomb. 



VI 

And when I kneel, as is most meet, 
And cross myself in prayer, 

I hear it beat . . . 

And beat . . . and beat . 
Beneath her yellow hair. 



74 



YOLANDE 



VII 



At night, when to her grave I pass, 
Wet with the wailing rain, 

Down in the grass, 

These lips, alas ! 
Call to her — all in vain. 



VIII 

Yet Yolande knew my voice of old ; 
But now, how can she hear. 
Through fold on fold 
Of glimmering gold 
That rests about her ear ? 



IX 

I feel that long gold grow and grow. 
Ah me, what hair she had ! 

Dust ! . . . Dust ! . . . I know 

Yet were that so. 
How could I then be glad ? 



75 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Glad am I, when, at evening red, 
A music sweet and clear, 
Up from the dead, 
Floats overhead 
And lingers faintly near, — 



XI 

A voice as soft as angels' are — 
A music sweet and strong, 

As if afar 

A falling star 
Had perished into song. 



XII 

Hear ye no voices soft and low ? 
Then ye, too, deem me mad, — 

I only know . . . 

Long . . . long . . . ago 
That Yolande made me glad ! 



76 



CALIBAN 



Caliban 



Caliban sprawls on the slippery beach 

Beside the slimy sea ; 
Freckled, misshapen, a dog in speech, 
He clutches the mussels in his reach, 

Craunching them greedily. 
Of Sycorax, hag, he is the son ; 
He was littered here as the toads that run 

In caves by the sluttish sea ; 
What could his dam do but pollute 
This unkempt whelp — this monster brute 

Weed of the impish sea ? 



II 

He sprawls on his belly on the sands 

Along the swashing sea ; 
The ape, with his long and hairy hands, 

More human is than he : 
He swallows the crawling things a-raw, 

The crab, and the dead sea-mew ; 
He eats the jelly-fish all a-fresh — 

That mass of clotted glue ; 



n 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



He hankers ever for human flesh ; 
He gloats as he sights the shipwrecked crew, 

For a cannibal is he ; 
And ever ravenous is his maw 

Beside the carrion sea. 



Ill 

His copper skin is blotched and bright, 

And of a sickly hue ; 
Both of his tusks are yellow-white. 

And one is broke in two ; 
Twin rows of teeth run round his jaw ; 
His bite is death, for his gums are blue ; 
The film on his eye as he leers at you 

Is livid as a snake's. 
From the frog's green pool he laps the scum 

Within the marshy brakes — 

No other spring has he ; 
And as he writhes with ague numb, 
He in his torture howls and quakes 

Beside the Python sea. 



78 



CALIBAN 



IV 



In the pitch-dark sky the lightnings flash 

Above the roaring sea ; 
The thunders growl, and the black waves dash 
Over the rocks with a roar and a crash, 
While he cowers low on the lurid sand 

Flat by the sulphurous sea. 
But more than the waves he fears the wand 

Of Prospero, the King ; — 

Sea-calf and a slave, 
He licks the foot of the meanest thing, 

This slime of the wave, 

This beast of a man, — 
Caliban, 

Scum of the filthy sea ! 



79 



THE SLOPES OE HELICON 



The Bivouac 

The snows are swirled across the skies ; 

Strong blows the blizzard's breath ; 
The baffled crow all vainly tries 
To stem the blast, nor with it vies, 
But drifts to death. 



Then come the terrors of the sleet, 

Of storm, and wind, and dark ; 
The blinding snow shall round them beat, 
Shall wrap about their freezing feet. 
And leave them stark ! 



80 



THE DEAD QUEEN'S LOVER 



The Dead Queen's Lover 

The night was dismal and dark 
As the moon crept out from a cloud, 
Where the king lay awake in his snow-white bed 
As Life might lie in a shroud. 



He placed his hand on his heart, 
To hear what its beating said, 

And it throbbed aloud, through the ominous gloom, 
" Dead ! . . . Dead ! . . . Dead ! " 

" O heart ! " he cried, in his pain, 
" Why moan like a mateless dove ? " 
Yet never a word the heart replied but, 
" Love ! . . . Love ! . . . Love ! " 



" Kind Heaven ! " he prayed in his grief, 
" Hast thou no balm for woe ? " 
And a gnome from the nadir moaned reply, 
^' No ! . . . No ! . . . No ! " 



8i 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



" O Soul of my sainted Love, 
Shall we meet on the shining shore ? " 
But a sigh sobbed down through the sky above, 
" No more ! ... No more ! ... No more ! " 

" Cold dagger, then, thou art my Bride, — 
Come lighten the burthen of breath ! " 
And the jaws of Darkness dripped with blood, 
As he leapt to the throne of Death. 

And ghastly and pale is the night, 
As the moon shudders under a cloud ; 
For is it a king on his snow-white couch. 

Or a corpse, in a crimsoned shroud ? 



82 



^f'^r 










'' J 



And gracious girlhood bloomed and blossomed then 



THE LAND OF NEVERMORE 



The Land of Nevermore 

There was a land beyond all others sweet, 

Upon whose golden shore 
We trod triumphant with our buoyant feet ; 
Beauteous the balmy days, yet oh, how fleet, 

The Land of Nevermore ! 



The royalties of boyhood, frank and fair. 
Spread round their wealth galore ; 

And gracious girlhood bloomed and blossomed 
there ; 

Within that land no sorrow came, nor care, — 
The Land of Nevermore ! 

One day Love wandered down the leafy lane 

Where he ne'er came before ; 
And guileless honor walked without a stain, 
For in that land there was no love profane, — 

The Land of Nevermore I 



83 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Oh, for the faith that flamed up like a pyre, — 

The strength of soul each bore ! 
Ah, for the glow, the passion, and the fire ! 
For that was all a land of high desire, — 

The Land of Nevermore ! 

And eyes there were that filled with Love's 
own tears; 

And lips that proudly swore 
To love past death a thousand, thousand years ! 
For in that land no treachery came, nor fears, — 

The Land of Nevermore ! 

'T is gone — 't is faded — vanished from us quite ; 

Naught can its joys restore ; 
Black wings wave round us of the coming night ; 
We walk within the shadow of its might, — 

The Land of Nevermore ! 



84 



A VENGED 



Avenged 

A FRIGHTENED moon, Without one star, 

Close chased by demon clouds ; 
Gaunt castle ruins, dim and far, 

Where phantoms flit in shrouds ; 
Fierce winds that torture frantic trees, 

And fright the guilty grass ; 
The moanings of sepulchral seas ; 

Weird spectres, that repass ; 
Black umbrage, threatening unknown doom ; 

Old blood-stains on the moss ; 
Pallid above a grave's damp gloom. 

The white and ghostly cross. 
No hint of hidden human guilt, 

Save this, the ghouls impart : 
A dagger — to the jewelled hilt, — 

Rusts in a woman's heart. 



8s 



ARROWS OF EROS 



Trifles^ light as air 

— Shakespeare 



OH, NOT ON THE FIELD 

Oh, Not on the Field 

THE soldier's SONG 

Oh, not on the field of conquest red, 

Where the crimsoned victors lay, — 
Not there with my laurels round my head. 
Not there in my glory find me dead, 
Not there — not there, I pray ! 

Not on the deck where we conquer and bleed, 

Conquer, and sink in the sea ; 
Find me not there — not there, I plead — 
Wrapped in the shroud of the gray sea-weed, 

Ah, not in the arms of the sea! 

Not in the sea, in its restless bed ; 

And not in the war's alarms ; 
But here. Beloved, here, instead. 
Let the whole world find me, when I am dead, 

In the white coil of thine arms ! 



89 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



The Captive 

THE KNIGHT^S SONG 

The arrow on the tower vane 

Is pointing to the sea ; 
The castle's gargoyles gurgle rain 

All week, incessantly ; 
And in the dove-cote, doves remain 

In forced captivity. 

O Love ! let the sweet storm abide 
That keeps me here by thee, 

The gargoyles gush with rain, and hide 
The whole world and the sea — ■ 

For in our dove-cote, by thy side, 
Dear is captivity ! 



90 



HER ROSES 



Her Roses 



One day when I was standing by 

My gentle little Maid, 
I took the roses from her hand 

Within the wildwood shade ; 
I stooped above her, where she sat 

Upon the rock to rest. 
And let the petals flutter down 

The dimples of her breast. 



II 

O rose-leaves — O my rose-leaves red, 

Quite vanished from mine eyes. 
She '11 find you when her couch she seeks, 

There in your paradise ; 
While I, a-wandering through the night 

Alone in rain and wind. 
Shall bless myself if I may see 

Her shadow on the blind \ 



91 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Lovers in the Lane 



As arm in arm they passed anear, 

The maiden and her lad, 
Their beauty pierced me as a spear, 

Their joyance made me sad. 

Then felt I like the evening cloud, 

That in the sunset skies 
Sees round it float a beauteous crowd, 

While it dissolves and dies. 



Ah, beauty gives us cruel stings 
When grown in others' bowers ; 

And youth and love are bitter things 
When they 're no longer ours ! 



92 



SIRENS 



Sirens 

A-POISE upon the mullein's tipmost top, 

And bending down its rod of gold, 
The thistle-finch all liquidly lets drop 
Melodies manifold. 



At sunset, in the laurel underbrush, 

From roseate blooms beneath the trees. 
Upon the silence pours th' impassioned thrush 
Rapturous ecstasies. 

But when Lucella, sweeter than them all. 

Warbles within the starry night. 
Her words are silver orbs of song, that fall 
Thrillingly exquisite ! 



93 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



The Moon-Ship 

O MID-DAY Moon, that in the blue of June 

Movest so fair above ; 
Art thou the phantom ship that all too soon 

Didst take away my love ? 

If thou art she, pale wanderer, then to me, 

When thou dost next arise. 
Oh, bring her back again, that I may see 

The love-light of her eyes ! 



94 










^S'?V^>^ down, lurid sun I 



BETRAYED 



Betrayed 

Sink down the leaden sky, O sun, 

With all thy lurid light, — 

The dismal day is done ; 
Thy rising raised me from the deep. 

Thy setting brings me night. 
And makes me, loveless, weep, — 

Sink down, O lurid sun ! 



95 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



In Pail-Mall 

1872 

Alieni temporis flores 

Remember you the day we were to meet, 

When I, in London, was a loiterer ; 

And you, all muffled in a wealth of fur, 

Came tripping with your Cinderella feet, 
Through the cold drizzle that was almost sleet, 

Bringing a sense of warmth and lavender ? 

And then, 'neath one umbrella, how we were 

Drenched, but most happy, wading down the 
street ? 
What did it matter all the mud and slush ? 

What did it matter should love bring us pain ? 

Your voice was like the gurgle of a thrush — 
Your voice, that I shall never hear again ! 

Your lips, your eyes, your dimples and your 
blush — 

Whose are they, since I Ve left the London rain ? 



96 



THE LUNCH AL FRESCO 



The Lunch al Fresco 

Paris 1872 
Agnosco veteris vestigia flammae 

What was to me the most delicious wine ? . . . 

Ah, yes ! 't was that I sipped at Fontainebleau ; 

You were sixteen, and I an ardent beau ; 

Children in love, and each to each, divine; 
I was your world, and you, I said, were mine : 

No lovers ever loved each other so — 

We stopped and swore it by the beech, you know. 

At last we ope'd our bottle, — we would dine — 
But glasses had we none — what should we do? 

We took it, gurgling, in alternate sips, 

Straight from the flask, — a laughing, loving pair; 
Then, while the wine was wet upon your lips, 

I kissed them, and . . . how long it seems ago ! . . . 

The wine ? Ah, Love ! the wine was " ordinaire I " 



97 



THE SLOPES OE HELICON 



A Friend No More 



SONG 



We have been friends until to-night ; 

For years we have been friends ; 
Sweet were the days and swift their flight, 

But now that friendship ends. 

'T is gone ! Let not a tear-drop roll, — 
'T is gone, though born above. . . . 

No more my Friend, but, by my soul 
Thou shalt be now my Love ! 



98 



THE LIGHT WITHIN 



The Light Within 

HE 

All day the swallows southward fly 

Along the chilly sky ; 

The clouds hang dull and drear, 

For summer days are done ; 
We, too, must seek the sunshine, dear, 

Let 's sail where shines the sun. 



SHE 

Art thou as fickle then as they, 
The birds that fly away 
To seek some warmer sphere 
When the sweet sun departs ? 

If we must seek the sunshine, dear, 
Let 's find it in our hearts ! 



99 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



My Source of Light 

SONG 

I 'm like the gray cloud just above 

The dawn ere day 's begun ; 
And thou 'rt my source of light, my Love, 

Thou art my morning sun. 

Pale am I till I feel thy beam. 

Till life thy light bestows ; 
And then a golden cloud I seem, 

Bathed in ethereal rose ! 



TOO 



TAKE BACK YOUR WORDS 



Take Back Your Words 

SONG 

Take back your words and dry your tears, 

Life is too short for hate ; 
We may be dead a thousand years, — 

Yet Love can conquer Fate. 
Too soon, alas ! each golden head 

Shall lie beneath the clay ; — 
What feelings have the silent dead ? . . . 

Oh, love the while you may ! 

For life is like a drop of rain, 

So small its limits be ; 
But death is monstrous as the main — 

The myriad-milHoned sea. 
Give me your lips ; dry all your tears ; 

So we at last may say. 
If we are dead a thousand years 

At least we Ve loved to-day 1 



lOI 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



By the Frozen River 

A WINTER SONG 



The river's surface, icy-mailed, 
Has bound the boat and oar, 
And Winter reigns where Summer failed 
O Love, remember how we sailed 
Along this very shore ! 



II 

The frost our currents, too, assailed ; 

No Spring can them restore ; 
The tears, the vows, — ah, naught availed 
O Love, remember how we sailed 

Where we shall sail no more ! 



I02 







And Winter reigjis ivhere Suvuner failed 



FAR FROM THE DAWN 



Far from the Dawn 

TO M. B. G. 
AN EVENING SONG 

The evening light is waning low 

Above the wooded hills ; 
The only note within the air 

The lonely whippoorwill's. 
The prima donna of the dawn, 

The golden-throated lark, 
All songless in the dale, alone, 

Awaits the coming dark. 

O Love, at morn, refulgent thou, 

At eve, how dim, in sooth ! 
Ah, where has all the music flown 

That filled the fields of youth ? 
Now lower sinks the evening light, 

And lonelier loom the hills ; 
With not a note in all the air, — 

Not e'en the whippoorwill's ! 



103 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



From Dawn till Dusk 

SONG 



As down the clover path I wade 

All in the morning sun, 
I pass the stile within the glade, 

And then I think of one, — 

Oh, then I think of one ! 

II 

At noon, when Summer days are bright, 

As, musing by the run, 
I see the water-lilies white, 

Oh, then I think of one, — 

Oh, then I think of one ! 

Ill 

When through the twilight fields I go 

After the day is done, 
I look into the West, and oh ! 

'Tis then I think of one, — 

'T is then I think of one ! 



104 



WHERE HAVE THEY GONE 



Where Have They Gone 

SONG 

Where are the rims of the beautiful hills 
That gladdened our eyes as we walked ? 

And where are the woods and the woodland rills 
Where we sat by the hour and talked ? 

Oh, where are the birds that sang in the dell 

So tenderly, soft, and low, 
That we paused in the love we had to tell 

And listened, — how long ago ! 



IDS 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



In Drear November 

If to me the night is so steeped in gloom, 

With sobbings of rain 

On the window-pane — 
Who sit by the warmth of my fire-lit room 

Oh ! what must it be 

To sweet Marjorie, 
Adown in that desolate marsh-land tomb ! 



io6 



GO ON WITH THE FLAY 



Go on with the Play 

SONG 



Let the play go on as is meet, 
We will smile and endure it yet; 

But the roses of life are far less sweet 
Than the lilies of regret. 



II 

Oh, gone is the love and the trust ; 

She sleeps by the willow-tree ; 
And only a handful of mouldering dust 

Is the heart that broke for me. 



in 

Go on with the play as is meet, 
We will smile and endure it yet ; 

But the roses of life are far less sweet 
Than the lilies of regret ! 



107 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



The Crescent 

Just over the gates of the gold and glow 

Where the sunset spirits are, 
She floats in the nebulous amber, low, 
Luminous, languorous, moving slow. 

Away from the evening star. 

A golden cloud drifts back from her face 

Like the tress of her yellow hair ; 
And the stars come out of their hiding-place 
To bask in her beauty and feel her grace, — 
To woo her, she is so fair. 

Her answers are soft as adagios. 

Yet wayward and coy is she ; 
When the petals close of the western rose, 
Evading them all, she silently goes 

Over the edge of the sea ! 



:o8 



MINOR CHORDS 



I touch the silent strings^ 

The broken lute complains ; 
The sweets of love are gone, 

The bitterness remains. 

— Richard Henry Stoddard 



BLIGHT 



Blight 

Happy are they, who, loving lovely things, 

Each new day love them more ; 
Whose tranquil spirits bear no restive wings, 

Who dwell, but never soar. 



There falls on certain souls this heavy doom. 

And wraps the morn in night : 
Joy's grape, once touched, will bear no second bloom. 

Nor old stars yield their light. 



Ill 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Above the Trees 



The fields are fair with waving wheat ; 
The earth is blooming round my feet ; 
But, oh, that blue I love to greet, 
Above the trees ! 



II 

How much of all that seemed most bright, 
How much I've loved and lost, has quite 
Evanished, — passed far out of sight, — 
Above the trees ! 



Ill 

No wonder, if, at morning red, 
At noon, or when the day is dead, 
I pause, oft-times, and gaze overhead, 
Above the trees ! 



112 



HOLLYHOCKS 



Hollyhocks 

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears — Wordsworth 



They rise beyond the fountain rocks, 
These spinsters robed in dainty frocks, 

Bo stately, prim, and tall ; 
Their hue the very rainbow mocks, — 
These quaint, old-fashioned hollyhocks 

Against my garden wall. 



II 

Their crimson e'en the rose defies ; 
Their pink is like the morning skies 

While yet the sun is low ; 
And if we turn away our eyes 
They hold us with their witcheries 

And will not let us go. 



"3 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



III 

Too coarse to cull for a bouquet, 
And lacking fragrance, yet do they 

Compel us still to see ; 
And as the breezes make them sway, 
What ribboned maidens are so gay 

In dance upon the lea ! 



IV 

And when I look the garden through, 
And mark, against the mountain's blue, 

The noon upon them bright, 
I know not how it be with you, 
But as for me it is a true 

And exquisite delight ! 



The poet whose imaginings 
Soar upward on ethereal wings 

The higher realms to reach, 
Is melted by the simplest things ; 
And e'en a garden flower brings 

Dreams beyond song or speech. 

114 



HOLLYHOCKS 



VI 



The hands that set these posies here 
Are turned to dust this many a year, 

So soon our dearest die I 
O Memory, in this nether sphere. 
What art thou but a constant tear 

That rises to .Love's eye ! 



"5 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



The Knight, the Maid, and the 
Minstrel 



Soft, my steed, across the sward; neigh not when 

the bugle calls. 
Cease a-clanging, shield and sword, we are near her 

castle walls. 
Hold thy breath, O twilight breeze, let the long grass 

sink to rest 
There beneath ancestral trees : Lo ! she standeth in 

the West, — 



II 

Standeth on her turret high, dark against the setting 
f sun ; 

Pensive, as the knights go by gay with plume and 

gonfalon. 
Circled with her yellow hair, like the glory round a 

star. 
Often in the evening air have I seen her from afar, — 



ii6 



THE KNIGHT, THE MAID, THE MINSTREL 



III 

From afar, but never near, mute as marble — so she 

seems — 
Musing on some cavalier, down the green lanes of 

her dreams. 
Ah ! if she but dreamed of me, what a joy were then 

the strife ! 
I could ride down Destiny in the clashing lists of 

life! 



IV 

Kings, for her, would give a realm ; I, a knight, would 

brave disgrace ; 
Court a lance-thrust through the helm, for the sake 

of such a face. 
'* Maiden with the lustrous hair, dimly seen at dusk 

of day. 
Underneath those lashes fair, are there eyes of blue 

or gray ? 



117 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



" Blue or gray or shadowy brown ? Lift them, prithee, 

let them speak ; 
And the roses newly blown in the garden of thy 

cheek, 
Are they blushes meant for me ? If for other knight 

they bloom. 
By thy beauty's witchery, tell me. Damsel, tell for 

whom ! . . . 



VI 

*' Silent as a moorland flower ! Cruel Maid, I might 

as soon 
On a dial learn the hour by the light of Merlin's 

moon. 
Baffled thus each eventide, shall I, wondering what 

thou art. 
Ever solve, as on I ride, that sweet riddle called thy 

heart?" 



ii8 



THE KNIGHT, THE MAID, THE MINSTREL 



VII 

"- Nay, Sir Knight, be not so bold ! " Here her Har- 
per, like a cloud, 

Rose beside her, gray and old, swept his harp, and 
spake aloud : 

" Nay, Sir Knight, be thou reproved. Let the mystery 
alone. 

Lo, the maiden shall be loved better that she be not 
known. 



VIII 

" Looming o'er Life's desert sands, Cupid's gilded 
domes arise ; 

See, when touched with human hands, how they crum- 
ble from the skies ! 

Will the heart of youth n'er learn, Love that beckons 
with his torch, 

Beckons but to scathe and burn, — burn, and blind, 
and sear, and scorch 1 



119 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



IX 

" Thou shalt keep aloof for aye ; she, above all search 

or quest, — 
Half the perfume flies away, when the rose is once 

possessed. 
Thou, O maiden, like a star, still a mystic vision 

seem; 
On thy turret keep afar ; be to him a beauteous dream. 



" Hear thy Minstrel's prophecy, — red the words rise 

from his heart, — 
Lovers who would love for aye, must forever love 

apart." 

So they parted, as was doomed ; but, if legends run 

aright, 
In each heart a lily bloomed — bloomed eternal, day 

and night. 



120 



THE SINGER 



The Singer 



Sorrow had marred her face, — how much ! 

And dimmed her wondrous eyes ; 
But, oh, her Voice ! — her voice it could not touch,- 
That was of Paradise. 



121 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Longfellow 

Nihil tetigit quod non oniavit 

Not in the dawning of his golden prime 
His jfinest songs across the world he flung ; 

But who could match the pathos of his rhyme, 
When that the eve of life around him hung ? 

As darkness neared, rarer each touching lay ; 

Then, through his lyre, we heard his rapt soul pour 
As those charmed harps that but at night-time play 

^olian strains on Pascagoula's shore. 



122 



THE WATCHER 



The Watcher 

Not a break in the gray East's dungeon bars, 
Where the dawn lies prisoned behind the clouds; 

And the dome is dark with the graves of stars, 
As muffled they lie in their sable shrouds. 

Alone I wait on the black cliff's brow, 

With my pale hands stretched to the unseen sea ; 

While the breakers moan in the mist below. 
And beat, like the heart that beats in me. 

But when to the soul did the sea sing hope ? 

The sea-god is dumb. So I stand and wait 
For the prophet lips of the Dawn to ope. 

And banish, or brighten, the face of Fate. 

Far better to drowse on the dim sweet breast 
Of the starless Night, with her slumberous eyes, 

Than to watch forever, in aching quest, 

For a glimmer of day in the dawnless skies. 

O passionate arms, are ye faint on the height? 

O fervent lips, will ye cease to pray 1 
Lo, the morn is past, yet it brought no Light ; 

And the noon comes on, but it brings no Day. 



123 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 

To a Baby 

B. M. B. 

Baby, Fay, or wingless Sprite, 
Wanderer from supernal light, 

Fragment of the Infinite, 
Shake the star-dust from your curls. 
Tell us — older boys and girls — 

Of the land that love empearls. 

We forget — for we grow old 
All the shining ways of gold. 

All the anthems upward rolled ; 
We forget the silver note 
Of the cherubs as they float, 

Nimbus'd in the air remote. 

Tell us of that City bright. 

With its precious stones bedight, — 

Jasper, jacinth, chrysolite. 
We forget how looked the skies ; 
Tell us of the land that lies 

O'er the walls of Paradise! 



124 



A WINTER DIRGE 



A Winter Dirge 



M. B. M. 

How white and still o'er tomb and post 
The moon-made shadows go, — 

The trailing garments of a ghost, 
Across the church-yard snow. 

And does she feel the season's change, — 
The maid who sleeps below ? 

And seems it sweet, or seems it strange, 
The roses — then the snow? 



Ah, let it hail and let it roar, 
Or let the roses blow ; 

Alas ! she recks not any more, 
Asleep beneath the snow ! 



125 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Roland to the Nun 



The pain I suffer for her is more sweet 

Than all the joys that love e'er gave before; 

Better to touch the blue veins of her feet, 
Than loveliest lips that beauty ever bore. 



II 

Let others fold a fair form full of bliss ; 

Let others thrill the senses, one and all ; 
But, oh, my white Dove, I would kneel and kiss 

Even your shadow on the convent wall ! 



126 




Is there no baii7i of r>.veet repose 



BEYOND THE HILLS 



Beyond the Hills 

The morning comes ; the evening goes ; 
Sick of life's petty joys and woes, 
I crave the rest that peace bestows. 
Is there no balm of sweet repose 
Beyond the hills? 

O watcher on the peaks of white, 
Seest thou no rays of coming light, — 
No rifts of day within the night ? 
Will the Dawn bring me my delight. 
Beyond the hills ? 



127 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Beneath the Palm 

Near Appalachicola's reef, 
Upon the floating lily leaf, 

The adder sleeps at noon ; 
And from the tangles of the brake, 
The larum of the rattlesnake 

Startles the still lagoon. 

On Okeechobee's waters black, 
At eve the alligator's back 

Floats huge and dark and bare ; 
Meanwhile, the sweet magnolia bloom 
Drifts o'er the venom and the doom 

That lie in ambush there. 



Ah, region of the tropic bowers. 

The quest of youth, — the land of flowers. 

By Pensacola's bay ; 
A land such as no other seems. 
Thou livest only in our dreams, — 

De Leon's Florida! 



128 



THE ROAD 



The Road 

Oh, the sweet o' the day is its mystery, 
And I trudge the old road still ; 

I shall never be happy until I can see 
Over the brow of the hill. 



Oh, Life with its mysteries dark and high, 
Who shall explore its steeps ? 

I crave to fathom the fathomless sky. 
And of Death, the bottomless deeps. 

Ah, the sweet o' the day is its mystery. 
But I trudge the old road still ; 

And shall never be happy until I can see 
Over the brow of the hill ! 



129 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



They Bring Their Flowers 



They bring their flowers, 
They weep a little o'er us 

In our narrow bed ; 
How soon their lips shall find 
Some kiss more dear than ours, 

When we are dead ! 



II 

'T is no surprise 

That sweeter smiles will come, 

When our worn smile is sped ; 
That those who loved us once 
Shall love more lustrous eyes, 

When we are dead. 



130 



THEY BRING THEIR FLOWERS 



III 

Be not deceived 

E'en by love's protestations 

Round the dying bed ; 
That some would miss us living 
Well may be believed, — 

How few, when dead ! 



IV 

If strong and fair, 

We may be loved, perhaps, 

While beauty's rose is red ; 
But oh, how soon forgot, — 
How little do they care. 

When we are dead ! 



131 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



My Father at Eighty 

I SAW him sitting in his sunset chair ; 

His eyes were gazing fondly into space ; 
I did not speak ; I knew that, hovering there, 

He saw again my mother's long-lost face. 



132 



A POET'S BOOKCASE 



A Poet's Bookcase 

Oh, gently, — gently near the bookcase tread ; 

Speak only in hushed whispers, soft and low ; 
These are the urns that hold the deathless dead. 

The souls of those passed onward long ago. 

At this still shrine your heart-felt homage give ; 

With reverence touch each tome upon the shelves; 
These are the Dreams of Genius, — hence they live, — 

The fine quintessence of their finer selves. 



"^ZZ 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



The Anniversary 

The silent snow is on the land, 
The moon is shining bright; 

I take the roses in my hand, 
And tread the path of white. 

Ah, life belongs alone to youth, 

And we of riper years, 
But walk a wistful way of ruth 

Along a stream of tears. 

What use for roses have I now. 
Who miss what love once gave ? 

Only to stoop, and in the snow, 
To lay them on her grave ! 



134 



MV LADY FAIR 



My Lady Fair 

Ox-eyed daisy, in the grass, 

Looking in that queenly way, 
Come, I cannot by you pass, 

I must cull you here to-day. 
'T is because your glowing crown 

Calls to mind, as I behold, 
Her great eyes of velvet brown. 

And her hair of wondrous gold. 

Laurel blooms that here recline, 

Growing on the wooded crest. 
Verily you must be mine, 

I will wear you on my breast. 
Know you why each coral star 

From your branches here I clip ? 
'Tis because to me you are 

Rosy as my Lady's lip. 



135 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Elder blossoms white as snow, 

Flowering by the meadow fence, 
Longer here you may not grow, 

Surely I must take you hence. 
Why should I with half a sigh 

Break you off in spite of ruth ? 
'Tis because you seem to me 

Pure as is my Lady's truth. 

Everything of loveliness, — 

Bird and blossom, perfumed air, - 
Makes me think of her, and bless 

One so gentle and so fair. 
Who is she such solace gives ? 

Who so beauteous and so kind ? 
Ah ! my Lady only lives 

In the palace of my mind. 



136 



O WHAT IS SONG 



O What Is Song 

O WHAT is Song, 
And what is Art, 
And what is Fame 

To me, — 
Who sit apart, 
With single heart. 

In loveless ecstasy ? 

Ah, what are Hearts 
When once possessed ; 
Ah, what are Loves 

To me, — 
In whose dark breast 
A sea's unrest 

Pulses eternally ? 

O what is Life, 

And what are Dreams, 

And what is Death 

To me, — 
What, but dull beams, - 
But hints and gleams 

Of grander Entity ! 

i 

137 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



The Bride of the Sea 

IN MEMORY OF JAMES JACKSON JARVES — FLORENCE 

There are cities high over Orion 

That jasper and sardonyx be; 
Whose streets it were joy but to lie on, 

Whose walls it were bliss but to see ; 
Many sumptuous cities fair Dian 

Beholds over mountain and lea, 
But the Bride, 'neath the wings of her Lion, — 

Where is one such as she ? 



She is crowned with her triumphs and towers. 

And blue run the veins in her arms ; 
Like the lotus, afloat with her flowers, 

Her whiteness hath wonderous charms; 
Delicious her lips are, with powers 

Circean, yet void of alarms ; 
And the mortal that dreams of her bowers 

Leaves his soul in her arms. 



138 



THE BRIDE OF THE SEA 



Yet should time, ever eager, though olden, 

Her fairness despoil and depose ; 
Should her domes, which at evening are 
golden. 

Dissolve as her Apennine snows ; 
Should the sceptre, which long she hath 
holden. 

Depart, and the crown from her brows. 
And the robes of her splendor be rolled in 

The gray dust of her woes ; 

Should the glory grow dim of her Titians, 

Her gondolas drift 'neath the moon ; 
Should her marbles, mosaics, Venetians, 

Evanish and pass as a swoon ; 
Should her forehead, the fairest of visions. 

Sink under the silent lagoon, 
And the sea, tombing all her traditions, 

Leave a waste for the loon ; 



139 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Should she melt as a mist evanescent, 

Or fade as a myth from a scroll, — 
Yet her wraith would arise juvenescent, 

Aglow with a great aureole ; 
Still her glamour, eternally crescent. 

Supreme o'er the spirit would roll ; 
And her Name, as a star iridescent, 

Light the sky of the soul. 

Though in regions celestial there are lands - 

Bright lands it were bliss but to see. 
Whose towers, built high over star lands, 

Of beryl and sardonyx be ; 
Though cities in fabulous far lands 

Loom fair over mountain and lea, — 
Yet on earth, in her gloom, or her garlands. 

Who so comely as she ! 



140 



THE WING OF DEATH 



The Wing of Death 

We stood beside the church-yard stone, 

My pale sweetheart and I ; 
We mused a moment there alone; 

A tear was in her eye. 
I took her by the trembling hand, 

And kissed away the tear ; 
I wondered which of us would' stand 

Above the other's bier. 



She read my thought, and quick she said, 

" I 'm but a woman — I, 
But on the day I saw you dead. 

That day I, too, should die." 
I laughed it off, to hide the blow — 

It is a way with men — 
Alas ! how little did we know 

That she was dying then ! 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



O Earth 

O Earth, the Mother of all, 

I walk in your woodlands browned ; 

But a glory has left your laurelled lanes, — 
A glory of sight and sound. 

The fleet of the festal clouds 

Is unreefing her sails anew ; 
And the eagle soars on his circling wings. 

Glad, in the deeps of blue. 

O Mother, the Nurse of us all, 

In spite of your Autumn's gold, 
A shadow has darkened your hills of flame 

With a touch that cannot be told ! 

Something is gone from the fields ; 

Something is gone from the air ; 
And the urns of sorrow have flooded the world. 

And the vials of despair. 

Ah Mother, the Nurse of us all. 
You have balm for many a wound, 

But not for a heart that breaks for one. 
Silent, under the ground ! 



142 




And softer than the sound of ivaters fallmg' 



ODE TO THE MEMORY OF KEATS 

Ode to the Memory of Keats 

1880 



Thy voice is as the sound of far-off seas, 
And sweeter than the hum of Enna's bees, 
That fed on flowers round the milk-white knees 
Of hapless Proserpina ; or than strains 
Of harps aeolian, made by murmurous leaves 
When elfin airs are going through green lanes 

In some enchanted vale ; 
Or than a song at sunset, 'mid the sheaves. 
When troops of reapers, singing, ope the bars, 
And the young crescent with her sister stars, 

Stoops low to listen, golden pale ; — 
Sweeter than all these ! 
And softer than the sound of waters falling 
Through dells of El Dorado ; or the calling 
Of rose-limbed Nymphs, at eve, for their god lover 
Among the trees Idalian, arching over 
Dim avenues whose twilights never change ; 
Ah ! sweeter than all things we may discover, 
And strange ! — 



143 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Strange as the song of some unrestful star 

That falls above a city, but so far 

And high, none hear, save those who watch the 

skies 
A-hunger for the eternal harmonies 
That drop from lips of haloed poets dead, — ■ 

So sounds thy voice o'erhead ; 
And, listening, lesser Bards hear the rapt tone. 
Harp sweeter songs, and think the strains their 

own, 

So Orphean-sweet thine are ! 

II 

Unread may rest thy lays 

For many days — 
For many weary years ; 
And yet their echo still is in our ears, 

And sounds within our soul, 
Like the dim-heard, far-off, faint thunder-roll 
Along the evening hills. 

Ill 

Thou wast the Muse's favored one. 
Whose syllables were as a benison 
To heal our mortal ills. 



144 



ODE TO THE MEMORY OF KEATS 



Thou who didst honey from Hymettus rob, 
Thou, in the mind's celestial Parthenon, 
Hast filled thy niche, where all about thy lips 

The stone glows with white eloquence, 
Making the silence throb. 
Yet, O sweet poet, — thou who liest hence 
Under that slab pathetically small. 
Like one white lily thrown outside the wall, 
Upon the Roman grass, — this was thy doom : 
Within a callous people's laggard tomb. 

Which is henceforth, to us, a shrine, 
To lie forgotten long ; 
Silent those lips of thine, 

Nurtured upon Olympian wine. 
Wet at the Heliconian spring divine, 
And made immortal by immortal song. 

IV 

Aerial architect, whose realm was space. 

Who in the mind's blue zenith — thine abode — 

Reared the transcendent spire of the Ode ; 

Who built dream-raftered temples, high and strong, 

That break life's flat horizon into joy, — 

The Brunelleschi of the Dome of Song, — 

A full-voiced poet thou, while yet a boy. 



145 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Thy lips true sculptors were, and, gay or grave, 
The plastic language took the print they gave ; 
Apollo touched them, and beyond recall, 
Thy speech thereafter ran most musical 
Through all its lucent labyrinthine ways, — 

Through all thy golden lays. 
But Atropos, too soon, with sudden shears 
Above thee leaned to cut thy thread of years, 
And as she cut it, sighed ; 
Thereat thy name 

Died 
Into deathless fame ! 



O weak, — yet strong ! 

Pale Star of later Song, 
Across the Atlantic, streams 
The glorious splendor of thy beams. 
Reaching and dazzling many an eye and ear. 
And still thou liv'st. We feel thy joys and ills ; 
Thy spirit walketh on our sunset hills ; 
Thy lays yet breathe, to those who still can hear, 
Memnonian music from auroral air; 
Thy voice is on the peaks, serene and clear ; 
From Indian dells, or down Ionian dales. 



146 



ODE TO THE MEMORY OF KEATS 



We hear thy harp still sighing Grecian tales 

Of deities melodiously forlorn, — 
We hear, — and bless the day that thou wast born. 
O Poet of the night, and of the morn, 

Bard of immortal woes, 
Thou mad'st our world more beauteous and more 

sweet, 
And so we cast our pearls about thy feet 

In reverence, with a sigh ; 
We who love beauty cannot let thee die ; 
We know thy heart was pierced through with the 
thorn. 

Though hidden by the rose ; 
We know thy breast was bleeding all life long, 
O thou, the Nightingale of English Song ! 



147 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



The Idealists 

TO THE MEMORY OF THOS. BUCHANAN READ 



As a cloud that dissolves in the sky 

At the close of the day, 
Even so out of life, silently, 

Man passes away. 
As a leaf from the branch of a tree 

Falls and melts in the mould, 
So for man — the godlike and free — 

This fate is foretold. 



II 

As the tussocks on prairie or plain 

Are swallowed by fire, 
So of man, but his ashes remain, — 

The earth is his pyre. 
All his work, all his love, all his fame, — 

Verse, picture, or bust, — 
'T is a dream, 't is a wraith, 't is a name, 

It is dust, it is dust! 



48 



THE IDEALISTS 



III 

Yet no less will we strive to the end, 

E'en if life has deceived ; 
Let death prove a foe or a friend, 

We strove, we achieved. 
With humility haughty as pride, 

Looking up through our bars, 
As we lived and aspired, so we died, 

Athirst for the stars ! 



149 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Mariners 



A HYMN 



Darkness upon the vast ; 

Storm raging wild around ; 
Torn sail, and shattered mast, 

Far thunder-sound ! 



No harbor-lamps to-night ; 

Waves dashing o'er the deck ; 
Fierce breakers surging white, 

Warning of wreck ! 

Louder the billows roar ; 

Wilder the waters leap ; 
Lost — lost in sight of shore — 

Lost in the deep ! 

Lo, on the furious sands. 

Death waits upon the coast ; 

Help, Lord ! reach out Thy hands 
Ere we are lost ! 



150 



MARINERS 



God of the storm and sea, 
Sink we, unless Thou save, 

Fill us with faith in Thee 
To walk the wave ! 



See where, to aid us, He 

Comes through the raging blast. 
O Star of Galilee! — 

Saved ! . . . Saved at last ! 



151 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



Across the Years 

TO E. H. 

Ye Poets of all the ages and climes, 

I know the bent of your song ; 
In Summer, right gay were your golden rhymes, 

And dark, when the Winter was long. 

When Spring was queen of the redolent year, 
In verdure your verses were clad; 

When Fall, like a lorn dove, fluttered drear. 
The notes that you crooned were sad. 

Poets of every aeon and clime. 

Your singing is naught but a breath ; . . . 

1 hear the desolate surges of Time 

Sob on the shores of Death ! 



152 



FOOTFALLS ON THE STALKS 



Footfalls on the Stairs 



When morning from the clouds of roseate red 
Comes with her dewy and delicious airs, 
I rise and leave my solitary bed, 
And stepping softly, hear the muffled tread 
Of footfalls on the stairs. 

II 

When through the lonely house at noon I go, 
Wrapped in deep thought, and troubled with my 

cares. 
Pacing the floors in silence to and fro, 
I hear those feathery sounds, so soft and low — 
The footfalls on the stairs. 



Ill 



At twilight, when the lamps make solemn cheer, 
When each loved portrait recognition wears — 
Pictures of lost ones beyond measure dear — 
As through the halls I pass, I pause, and hear 
Faint footfalls on the stairs. 



153 



THE SLOPES OF HELICON 



IV 

At midnight, when I mount up to my room, 
And shadows from my glimmering light that flares 
Walk with me, and above me darkly loom, 
I listen, for I hear from out the gloom 
The footfalls on the stairs. 



After the heart is stript and desolate ; 
After the losses, sorrows, sobs, and prayers ; 
After the loneliness of life's long wait, — 
Oh, may I hear within the Golden Gate 
Those footfalls on the stairs ! 



154 



NOTES 

Page 27. — Calliope is here used as a general name for 
the Muse of Poetry. 

Page 59. — The picture upon which this sonnet is writ- 
ten is a copy of a Cuyp in the author's possession, not 
an original, as might be inferred from the caption of the 
sonnet. 

Page 6y. — An English writer of distinction, — himself 
a poet, — having seen this sonnet in MS., writes to the 
author : " In England we pronounce Euganean with the e 
long ; but it is of course wrong to do so. It is Shelley's 
fault ; he rhymed it to pcean^ forgetting Martial's line : 
* Nupsit ad Eicganeos sola puella lacus.^ " 

Page ']%. — Line eleven. The author has here made 
use of a superstition current among the negroes of the 
Southern States. 

Page 93. — Here, and on page 71, an experiment in 
rhythm has been attempted ; and this is really the raison 
d"* etre of the two little poems. 

Page 138. — By permission of Lippincott's Magazine. 



155 



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